enemy came forward in clumps and groups, but not in lines. He had to resist the urge to underestimate them, rabble but with twice the warriors he commanded. And if their lord was on the battlefield, all would be of one mind.
The talonmaster was concerned that some of the force he faced might be Mrem. There appeared to be some familiar shapes. They had fought a few of their own kind before. The enslaved Mrem all had shared the same expression of pain and horror. Most had also fought to the death. In a perfect world, Aedonniss would let those be captured alive in this battle. But to do that the clan would have to hold the field against a determined, often suicidal foe and have the time to subdue those Mrem controlled by the Liskash lord. Rscil sighed and flicked a claw. In this world, they would likely have to be killed. There would likely be no choice. His best and most veteran were in front, and some mixed among the rest. He trusted them to do what was necessary.
Still, it would not do to underestimate that force. More dust rose as they advanced, and they were on higher ground for now, coming down from the mountains. They would be motivated by whichever Liskash styled himself their “god.”
The Claw drillmasters kept up a steady, encouraging shout as they advanced, until Cmeo Mrist started her chant. In moments, the other Dancers voiced with her, and the thump of the claw’s drums soon matched those of the Dancers’ footbeats.
It was an inspiring sound. It looked…odd. Even after long practice, to see the Dancers twisting forward between paired ranks of warriors was disconcerting, and felt slightly wrong, and even unmasculine. Better than being enslaved in mid spear thrust, Rscil reminded himself. If it worked…
There were some slight ripples in the ranks as the enemy became visible. Liskash in plenty, some mounted on several eights of beasts, behind a charging wall of literal meat-herdbeasts including mottlecoats, pests, scavengers and some lupins, anything the ruling Liskash could stir up and control enough to drive forward. Yes, there were Mrem approaching too, with their body language and fur showing extreme distress. Poor creatures.
Behind them was a mass, not really a formation, of scaled Liskash. Most were spear armed. Many held round shields made of some sort of plant. The fighters stood a bit taller than the Mrem, with thick legs ending in splayed toes. Their scales were mottled, tending toward shades of gray, green, and tan. The Liskash warriors’ reptilian heads were long and ended in a long toothy mouth that on most sagged slightly open. Yellow and white teeth, sharp and longer than a claw, were visible even in the distance. Few of the Liskash wore any armor and fewer held swords. Those who rode were better equipped, carrying long lances with bronze points, backed up by two long, curved knives in leather belts.
Then the smell of the enemy mass hit him. The reeks of fear, anger, despair, anguish and the stench of unwashed bodies from enslaved Mrem and uncared-for animals all rushed up his nose. He winced, sneezed, and shook his head. The Liskash didn’t care about their slaves so their slaves did not care for themselves.
“Forward!” the talonmaster shouted.
The horde came on fast, and there were more ripples, and he realized one significant problem. The chanting of the Dancers drowned out the encouragement and orders from the drillmasters. The formation was more ragged than he liked.
He pointed, and Gree cropped the arogar into motion. Together they hurried down to the front line of warriors.
The talonmaster shouted as he went, matching the first drillmaster he passed. “Keep your spacing! Keep your spacing!” He hoped to turn that into a chant itself. Gree repeated the command. A couple of others caught on, and it spread.
It worked. Fist leaders within the ranks echoed it, and order improved. Rscil neared the front and hefted his bundle of javelins, then checked the bronze claws at his side. He would be in the battle directly. The front two ranks tossed their first volley of bronze darts. They whistled as they flew and landed among the animals and slaves with deadly effect. The talonmaster knew, though, that their darts and javelins would have more effect against a cohesive force of thinking beings than they were having on the disorganized gaggle of dull-witted slaves being driven into the clan ahead of the Liskash.
Then the oncoming wall of enemy smashed into them, and a fistful of leatherwings dropped from the sky to clap their wings low over the first group of Dancers still chanting behind the front line of warriors.
Instinctively those Dancers hissed, snarled and lost their Dance. A couple of the front Dancers froze; the rest nearby fluffed and arched and poked at things running between their feet and flapping overhead, dancing around in disgust or surprise. One stretched her claws and ripped a tear into a low-flying leatherwing. Two others tore at a small snarling beast that had been driven through the warriors, until it came apart in gobbets of flesh and bone.
That was manageable, but the Dancers’ aggression caused a complete break of the two ranks of warriors behind them. They hesitated, unsure if they should shove their way past or wait. Several tried to rush in front to form a block around the Dancers, leaving a gaping hole in that line behind the unarmored females. Some warriors from farther behind broke ranks and ran to defend the Dancers, exactly as Hress Rscil had feared. They exposed more of the Dancers who were behind them and those too stopped chanting. The sensation of calm that the drums and chanting had instilled was fading.
The slaves and wild beasts were dead or fled. The smell of blood and fear was tangible. Drillmasters shouted, their strident orders almost lost in the din as the first rank now thrust and stabbed the leaping Liskash. They left the spears impaled in scaled muscles and drew swords and bronze claws, as the second rank poked their points between the fist warriors in support.
Well enough, Talonmaster Rscil thought, for a battle. He had withdrawn to a slight hill where he could overlook the field after the first surge had been broken. Despite the chaos among the Dancers behind them the clan was holding its ground. It was apparent the Liskash fighters were less skilled, but there was a great many more of them than the clan had warriors. Already he could see masses of Liskash beginning to flow around the edges of the clan.
“Fifth and Sixth Claw, split and wing! Either Flank!” he ordered, and nothing happened. The chanting was distracting at this point, and didn’t seem to accomplish anything. He heard his order relayed, and long moments later, those units ran to take positions angled back and on both forward flanks.
This wasn’t something they’d practiced enough with the Dancers. Upon seeing those warriors battle run, rather than jog into position, those females with the Seventh Claw reacted in fear, drawing up, fluffing up fur and claws for a fight, and disrupting the last two ranks, which he needed for support. For a moment the talonmaster felt despair, knowing that all was lost. But as he looked about it was clear that nothing had been decided. It took him a moment to realize the despair was not his, but a weapon of the Liskash. A few of the warriors near Rscil looked to him, ears low and teeth barred.
Cmeo Mrist and some others shouted and gestured at the laggard Dancers, pushing the last few into position and leading them in the Dance. Their chanting rose once more, and the talonmaster felt the Dancers’ spell in his mind. It returned with a feeling of exasperation and motherliness, or perhaps big sisterliness. It helped, and he saw the warriors gingerly form back toward some semblance of order. Swiftly, the peace in his mind was restored. With a near obscene hiss the formerly wavering warriors of the Clan of the Three Fangs tore into the Liskash.
Then the talonmaster had more to worry about, as he was in front right of the formation, with Liskash, stomp lizards and a pawful of ragged, sickly-looking Mrem charging at him. Gree was ready as soon as Rscil slapped his shoulder, drew up fast, and grabbed his own weapons. They each tossed four darts in quick succession, and one from the Liskash flew close between them from somewhere, its fletchstring brushing his whiskers and making his fur puff even more.
The flankers fanned around him and chopped their way forward, which was good, as the arogar were crippled and dying in whinnies, riddled with spears and cut by blades. For now, though, it was a platform from which to direct the fray.
They had a good front, and could manage an envelopment, but it was thin, only the two ranks. The Third and Fourth Claws had recovered, and he pointed and shouted for them to be general reinforcements to replace casualties.
The Dancers had pulled back, or rather, Cmeo Mrist had pulled them back. They were a few lengths away, but seemed comfortable enough there, and their chant was in full, deep resonance, an angry snarl of defiance.
